This Teaching Thing

 

This time of year is so hard. Hard for them. Hard for us. Just plain hard.

 

They're squirelly.

 

We're grumpy.

 

Squirelly + Grumpy = No bueno.

 

Welcome to high school.

 

I have wanted to cry a lot this week. Maybe scream at people even - sometimes students, but mostly adults. Things like:

 

"We have done this FIFTEEN times already!"

 

"Seriously, can you STOP touching each other!"

 

"Dude, I can see your underwear and I'm done."

 

"THAT is what you believe about kids?"

 

"No, they are YOUR kids too. Not just mine."

 

"Perhaps you should think of early retirement."

 

This is how, when you teach, you know it's Spring.

 

You begin to wonder if anything you have done or said over the last eight months has mattered. At all. Because they're squirelly and you're grumpy and IT"S SO FREAKIN' nice out that you just want to go far, far away. Like to a beach.

 

And then a student whose family just took her to a beach - a beach in Hawaii, for fun, during school - says to you: "Mrs. Smith! I have something to show you!"

 

She pulls out her phone, slides her finger acorss the screen a few times, and says: "Here! Look!"

 

And there it is.

 

 

While you have been losing sleep and growing stress-zits the size of Japan on your face, worrying if you have truly prepared them for that A.P exam coming up in two weeks, or about those ELL kids whose gains seem so painfully slow, or those kids who still haven't met standard on the state writing exam and were forced to take your remedial writing class - all of whom sit in your class, at your desks, and whose faces you have come to love - one of those faces sat on a beach in Hawaii and thought of YOU.

 

Hmmm.

 

Maybe I can finish these six weeks without yelling after all.

 

Squirelly, but PRECIOUS.

 

I needed that. Really, really needed that.

 

This teaching thing is not for the birds.

 

Nope.

 

But it is precious. Sometimes a little reminder is all it takes.

 

 

 

 

 



The Things Kids Say

 

I remember vividly the time my children had no words. When laughter and smiling, and wailing and crying, were the only signs that life was good or, to the contrary, that life was very, very bad.

 

I remember dreaming of the time when we could talk, when words - which I love oh so very much - would connect us, for good and for bad. I remember telling my friends, "I just want them to talk. I can't wait for them to talk." And my friends would often say, "You will take that back some day. Some day when they won't stop talking and you just want one moment of silence."

 

I suppose I might. But for now, I love the talking. Love it. All of it. Even the screaming of "FRUIIIIIITTTTTTTTT SNAAAAAAAAACKKKKKKKK!" I do. I love it. Because now I know exactly what they want or need most of the time.

 

And recently I have been pondering the things kids say a lot. Because the more I listen to the things my kids say, the more I realize that the things ALL kids say are 99% of the time a mirror of what their parents say. And I can prove it.

 

A week ago tomorrow, I was standing in the kitchen of my very dear daycare provider/mothering-partner/friend, explaining to her that sometimes I get road rage. That sometimes I get road rage and I yell things like "GET OUT OF THE WAY!"

 

Nico and Noah were in the very same kitchen, playing away, and I had no idea that perhaps their little ears were listening to their mother's confessions. Until.

 

Until Nico stood up at that very movement, looked Miss Sandy in the eyes, and yelled (with perfect body language, by the way) at the top of his lungs:

 

"MOVE OUT THE WAY, BITCH!"

 

Yes. Yes, he did.

 

Because clearly I did.

 

I apologized. I told Sandy I expected my "Mother of the Year" Award to be prepared by pick-up time. And then I called Trevor and said, "Love, I swear, I don't think I say that when I am mad in the car!"

 

He simply said, "You do."

 

The things kids say are a mirror of the things their parents say.

 

Understanding this, to me, is revolutionary. Perhaps I am being a little over-dramatic here, but seriously, this shit - I mean STUFF - could change the world.

 

 

The "Oh, kids can be so mean" should really be "Kids repeat what their parents say." And then parents should fix what they say. Done and done. No more mean. No more hate. No more valuing of all the wrong things that don't define a person at all.

 

I have tried not to be too hard on myself, even though I kind of feel like I should put myself in time out. But let's be honest - time outs for an adult are NOT a punishment. I have tried to focus on all the good I hear my children saying, like when Nico says to me, "I love you bigger than all the mountains and deeper than all the seas," or when Noah extends out his little hand and says clear as day, "Nice to meet you." Because they heard those from me, too.

 

If we just listened to our children, we could fix our mistakes and start a REVOLUTION. Without marches or sit-ins or coups or guns. A REVO-freakin'-LUTION. With words. Words between mothers and fathers and their babies.

 

You gotta start somewhere.

 

Words.

 

Just words.

 

Spring Break Reflections

My children have a way of reminding me that, really, I know nothing. It is important to be reminded of that as often as possible, I have decided, and so this time for Spring Break, we stayed home. Staying home with an almost 3-year-old Buggy and and an almost 2-year-old Toots (It's short for Tootsie, people.) is a perfect way to remind yourself that you, indeed, know nothing.

 

Spring Break Lesson #1: I know nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Nothing. Case in point, do NOT ask Nico if his lamb lollipop is yummy because he will immediately inform you, "It's not a lamb. It's a sheep." Well, shit. Alrighty then. 

 

Spring Break Lesson #2: When all else fails, shove them outside. Make sure to scoop the dog poop first, though, in order to avoid poop being dragged all over your carpet and couch. Yep. Couch. All over your couch.

 

Spring Break Lesson #3: When the weather turns to crap and you are now forced to be inside, try Play Dough or finger painitng. Your children will eat it and throw it and cover themselves and each other in it. It will keep their attention for approximately 6 minutes and it will take at least 15 minutes to clean up, during which time your children will begin to KILL EACH OTHER over having to share the basketball.

 

Spring Break Lesson #4: When at Target to buy another basketball because you cannot handle one more second of KILLING EACH OTHER, do NOT run your cart into the poor woman in front of you whose 5-year-old son is watching in astonishment because no one has ever hit his mother with a cart before. Neither of them care that you were up 5,000 times the night before with a sick baby, so you are so tired you literally forgot you were pushing your cart with two children and a basketball in it, until you ran into her. Shit again.

 

Spring Break Lesson #5: When the thought of having to make lunch almost sends you over the edge, go through the drive-thru of McDonald's. Again. When you are done with your fries, begin eating your children's fries because they are so good, you just can't help yourself. When Noah tells you, "My fries," tell him, "No. Mine." He might even find that a little funny, which will make you feel a little better about yourself.

 

Spring Break Lesson #6: Hang out with besties. And their children. The children will do things like take your kids for skateboard rides and read them books at the library or even show them how to use a computer. All the children will prove to you, yet again, that age doesn't determine connection, and your love for all of them will grow.

 

Spring Break Lesson #7: Watch for garbage trucks. They. Are. Amazing.

 

Spring Break Lesson #8: Have dance parties. Lots of them. Put "Gangam Style" on repeat and party like it's 1999. For a little variety, occassionally play Shakira's "Waka Waka." Do not, however, play FloRida's "Whistle." That's all I am saying about that.

 

Spring Break Lesson #9: When your husband walks in the door a little after 5 on let's say, Thursday, pass him in the entryway, acknowledge his presence with a nod and a quick "Mama is done. I'll be upstairs." He will then load the children into the van for a trip to the Man Store (i.e. Home Depot) and after 30 minutes of reading, you will feel like you can go back downstairs again. 

 

Spring Break Lesson #10: When Sunday arrives and it is 9:23 p.m., remind yourself that you only have two more months. Two more months until you get to do this again for two and a half months straight. And while you wonder for a second if you can really do that, you know that not only can you, but you want to. So badly it hurts.

 

Two more months, my loves. Two more months. I cannot wait.